Learning to Walk Blindfolded
by Sentimental Star
Summary: While their younger siblings cross the gorge, Peter and Susan have their own journey to make, and their own lessons to learn…--Companion piece to Keeping the Faith-- --AU, Book and Moviebased-- EDIT: CHAPTER 3 HAS BEEN POSTED!
1. The Reclaiming of Sight

**WARNING:** Massive angsty, emotional mess to follow. You may want to have a tissue box at hand. Please also be aware that I deal with some very sensitive issues in this chapter, so be advised—this may be difficult for some people to read.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis and Walden Media.

_**Author's Note:**_ Well, as promised…:grins: Welcome to the first chapter of _Learning to Walk Blindfolded_, the companion piece to my _Keeping the Faith_ fic. This story will chronicle Peter and Susan's journey, as they struggle to reach their siblings and Prince Caspian…and learn to trust in what they cannot see in the meantime. Both chapters I have been putting up will be lightly revised, but are still pretty much the same chapters you might remember. I hope you enjoy!

_**Rating:**_ T/M (for sensitive issues)

_**Summary:**_ While their younger siblings cross the gorge, Peter and Susan have their own journey to make, and their own lessons to learn…(AU, Book and Moviebased, Companion Piece to _Keeping the Faith_)

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Personal Thoughts/**_

_**Memories/Excerpts/Quotes (Italics)**_

**(1)** _Prince Caspian_ pg. 261 in _The Complete Chronicles of Narnia_ (Hardcover; Illustrated)

_Learning to Walk Blindfolded_

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter One: The Reclaiming of Sight_

* * *

"_I can't see anything," said Peter after he had stared his eyes sore. "Can you, Susan?"_

"_No, of course I can't," snapped Susan. "Because there isn't anything to see. She's been dreaming. Do lie down and go to sleep, Lucy."_

"_And I do hope," said Lucy in a tremulous voice, "that you will all come with me. Because—because I'll have to go with him whether anyone else does or not."_

"_Don't talk nonsense, Lucy," said Susan. "Of course you can't go off on your own. Don't let her, Peter. She's being downright naughty."_

"_I'll go with her, if she __**must**__ go," said Edmund. "She's been right before."_

"_I know she has," said Peter. "And she may have been right this morning. We certainly had no luck going down the gorge. Still—at this hour of the night. And why should Aslan be invisible to us? He never used to be. It's not like him…"_ (1)

* * *

"_Why wouldn't I have seen him?"_

"_Maybe you just weren't looking for him."_

It was hardest for Peter: he was the oldest. That meant many things.

In his mind, it meant that he should have seen Aslan, just as Lucy had. It meant that, if he had not seen the Lion, then surely…surely it must have been a trick of the light, or that Lucy had been dazzled by the sunlight and heat.

"_The last time I didn't believe Lucy, I ended up looking…well, pretty stupid."_

It meant that while Edmund may have had a point, he knew what he had seen, and no possible (or passable) path down into the gorge existed.

It meant that while he had led them wrong once, he would not do so again.

"_I'm sorry, Lu, I know you may be right after all, but I can't help it."_

It also meant that he failed to notice when his two youngest siblings did not join them as he led their small party away from the gorge and back down towards the fir wood—an oversight that would later horrify him.

At the moment, he was much too preoccupied by the sudden obstacle the fir wood presented them.

The trees were too thick.

Whether they had entered the gorge through a thinner part of the wood, or he had gotten them somehow turned around, it was much harder going back than going forward.

An hour of stooping and pushing, shoving and swatting, and they had made barely a half-mile's headway. It was then that Peter realized if they had any hope of making it to Beruna, they would need to circumvent the wood, and follow along the lower half of the gorge.

He gave a soft groan as he understood that they would need to double back, and had probably gone a half-mile out of their way when they were fighting through the trees.

Turning to Susan and Trumpkin beside him, he muttered, "I'm sorry. This isn't the way I meant to go at all."

Peter looked so frustrated and so exhausted that Susan, who had been rapidly growing more irritable, found herself softening. Gently gripping his shoulder with a faint smile, she leaned over him and pointed at a clearing some yards in the distance. "Look over there, Peter. Isn't that the same creek we passed earlier, as we were coming up to the gorge? It's probably further upstream, but still, it's the same direction—towards the gorge. Mightn't we stop there for a bit, get a drink, and then see about following it back to where we first entered the wood?"

And just for a moment, when he met her eyes, Peter thought he saw a flash of something, a sliver of the Queen she used to be, and without meaning to, he relaxed. "You're right, Su. Of course. Maybe we aren't so badly off as I thought."

It was another matter trying to get there. The trees remained thick, and by the time they had begun to thin and clear out, Peter and Susan, as well as Trumpkin, each had more than their fair share of scrapes and bruises.

So it was with great relief that they dropped down into the slick grass beside the creek half an hour later. Hands and faces and arms and elbows were dipped in the blessedly cool water, and all three of them had a nice, long drink.

It was only as he pulled back, away from the stream, that Peter noticed what—or rather, _who_—was missing.

IOIOIOIOIOI

In Narnia, Edmund had taken to following on his older brother's heels whenever Peter strayed too far from their camp. It had at first irritated him to no end: Lion's Mane, he had no need of a _babysitter_!

But when, one evening, he'd managed to slip away from his brother (and their escort) without Edmund's noticing to take a short walk and wash up, he'd very nearly been assassinated.

That had been three years into their reign, and there were still a few remnants of the Fell Creatures that had served the White Witch lurking around the borders of their country. At the time, they had been very near the boundary between Narnia and the Western Wild, investigating rumors of the very same nature. He supposed that should have served as a warning, but he hadn't heeded it.

A Wer-Wulf had attacked him. A particularly large and surly Wer-Wulf who had served quite a few years under the False Queen and was not at all interested in parleying with the Son of Adam whom he saw as being the sole cause of the Witch's downfall.

Peter had only had a fleeting moment to be absurdly grateful that Oreius had insisted he and Edmund carry a sword at all times before the Wer-Wulf had leapt at him with a blood-curdling scream, fangs bared and wicked claws extended.

He had barely managed to pull Rhindon out of its sheath when the Fell Beast abruptly keeled over in mid-flight and dropped heavily onto the undergrowth beside the stream, an arrow embedded deeply in its side and very clearly dead.

He'd looked up at the stream bank and seen a white-faced Edmund in the moonlight shakily unstringing his bow.

When they returned to camp, he had received the tongue-lashing of a lifetime from his younger brother (as well as a highly displeased Oreius) and had listened without a word of complaint.

He never again objected to Edmund's presence after that.

IOIOIOIOIOI

With a searing flash of shame, Peter realized Edmund had never really _stopped_ protecting him like that—even when they returned to England, even when Peter lashed out at everything and every_one_ around him, including said younger brother.

Even when said younger brother's _older_ brother was too much of a blind fool to see what was right in front of him.

"Susan," he kept his voice deceptively calm as he spoke, straightening up and trying to hide his rising panic, "do you know where Lu is?"

Susan, who had been getting a drink of her own from the stream, now sat back on her heels and pinned him with a puzzled glance, daintily wiping her mouth. "Of course I do, Peter. She's…"

But at that moment Susan realized that of course she _didn't_ know, because Lucy, who had always been kept between them, _wasn't_ there. The only person separating her from Peter was Trumpkin; aside from the Dwarf, there was only a patch of grass and the brook's pebbled shore.

And once she realized _that_, she also realized that Edmund, who rarely ever left Peter's side, was nowhere in sight, either.

Immediately, Susan paled. "Oh, they _can't_ have!" she burst out.

Because she knew as well as Peter did what had likely happened: Edmund and Lucy had gone across the gorge. They hadn't _been_ there for the past hour and a half.

"How could we not have noticed?" she whispered, voice small.

Peter, his face tight, merely shook his head and stood to his feet, offering her a hand up. "I don't know, Su," he responded painfully as he helped her stand, releasing her hand.

At that moment, a crossbow bolt suddenly flew through the air only inches above their heads and embedded itself with a sharp _thwack_ in the trunk of a nearby fir tree.

"_Down_!" Trumpkin bellowed, throwing himself to the ground and at the same time forcing an astonished High King down into the bracken.

There was no time to do anything but react. Peter dropped, kicking a startled (and distracted) Susan none-too-gently in the shin.

With a surprised scream, Susan fell heavily on top of him. Even as the air was knocked out of his lungs with the impact, he immediately used her momentum to roll them over so that he was on top and his younger sister was beneath him.

As a half dozen crossbow bolts sailed through the air where they had been standing mere seconds ago, Peter forced her head down, using himself as a shield for her body.

When she realized what he was doing, Susan screamed again. "Peter!"

In the next instant, distant shouts and the crashing of several heavily armored guards through the bracken and undergrowth spurred the three on the bank of the stream to their feet.

"Hurry! Hurry!" Peter gasped, shoving Susan forward towards the higher end of the bank before grabbing Trumpkin by the scruff of his hauberk and practically tossing the Dwarf up onto it, as well. "Back to the gorge! Quick! Crawl, run, do _anything_, but get _back_! I'll hold them off!"

"_What_?!" Susan shrieked, immediately halting her headlong rush and whipping around to face him.

"_Now!_" he roared, whirling around to face the first of the Telmarines as the man splashed through the creek and drawing Rhindon out of its sheath with a metallic ring as he did so.

He didn't dare look to see if she listened. The Telmarine was on him within moments, and Peter barely had his sword up in time to block the blade that came whistling through the air towards his head.

Their swords met with a titanic clash of steel and Peter cried out at the sudden wrench his shoulders gave.

Seconds later, an arrow whizzed over his shoulder and embedded itself in the Telmarine's throat.

A sickening gurgle and the man clawed at it before dropping to ground, dead.

White-faced, Peter backed up to where an even paler Susan stood on the bank above him, arrow on the string and pulled back to her ear, its sights set on the remaining Telmarines as they dashed through the stream. "I told you to leave!" he gasped out, bringing up his sword and settling into a defensive stance next to her.

There was a sharp _twang_ from the other side of him as Trumpkin loosed his own arrow and picked off yet another advancing Telmarine. Three more appeared to take his place.

Releasing her own arrow into one of them and just as quickly replacing it, Susan retorted tightly, "And then what, Peter? What would have happened?" She released the next arrow and took out two Telmarines in one shot. A second shot from Trumpkin made sure they _stayed _dead. "As you so astutely observed only a few minutes ago, Edmund _isn't_ here, and neither is Lucy! You would have been alone—you could have _died_! _That_ would have been a fine thing to tell them, don't you think?"

Peter jumped down from the bank to land in front of her, bringing his sword up and over in an arc and neatly cleaving one soldier's head from his shoulders that had managed to duck past the barrage of arrows Susan and Trumpkin were shooting off. "I had it sorted!" he yelled up to her, spinning and smartly gutting a Telmarine that had crept up behind him, unknowingly echoing his exact words to Edmund in the train station only yesterday.

Two more sharp _twangs_ from above him as Susan and Trumpkin released an arrow each. One rasped over his shoulder. The other sailed past his head. Both found their mark.

"Did you? Did you _really_, Peter?" Susan demanded, setting another arrow in the string and releasing it into a Telmarine's neck at the same time Peter drove his sword into the man's side. "Because it looked to me like you were sorely outnumbered."

"Weights and whirligigs!" Trumpkin cried, loosing another arrow of his own; this one, like all his others, lodging firmly in a Telmarine. "You two as soon as talk a man's ear off as strike his head off with a sword! Less of that, more of this!" And he released a second arrow into yet another Telmarine who would have cut off Peter's arm had he not at the last moment twisted away.

Only three Telmarine soldiers were left. Two fell to Susan's and Trumpkin's arrows respectively, while the third felt the bite of Peter's sword in the exposed flesh of his neck.

When the last one dropped—dead—into the undergrowth, Peter, Susan, and Trumpkin were left blinking at each other, with the blood pounding in their ears, their hearts pounding in their chests, and a ringing silence pervading the wood all around them.

IOIOIOIOIOI

"I tell you I had it sorted!" Peter yelled some hours later, where he was squaring off against Susan across the campfire.

It was evening. They had since left the fir wood and were now camped at the very edge of it, in a hollow just above where the stream exited the forest and twisted and furled its way through slick grass and rocky soil. Several yards away Trumpkin sat next to it, smoking his pipe as he watched it cascade over the lip of the gorge and into the River Rush below.

"You had no such thing, Peter Pevensie!" Susan retorted sharply, giving her bow one last vigorous rub with the oil cloth, before setting it aside and up against a nearby rock. The oil cloth went back into her quiver which she placed next to her bow before whirling to face him, wearing a fierce scowl. "Exactly what did you hope to accomplish by being _dead_, Peter?"

Exhausted, sore, and emotionally wrung out, they had decided to sleep there for the night and then attempt to cross the gorge the next morning.

"I _intended_ to protect you," Peter replied tightly, his own look just as fierce as Susan's as he stared her down.

She didn't back off. "And then?" she demanded. "After that? What would have happened, Peter? Without you what would have happened to us? What would have happened to Narnia, with her High King dead?"

"At least then I would've known you were alive! At least then I would've known you were _safe_! That you weren't _gone_ like--"

/Edmund and Lucy./

To his own absolute horror, Peter felt tears pour down his cheeks.

IOIOIOIOIOI

Peter was the oldest. That meant many things.

He had not the simple faith of his youngest siblings. He did not have the courage to do what Lucy and Edmund surely must have—to blindly trust in what he could not see. He had only a big brother's heart, and the fears of a young man.

In England it was harder to believe that Aslan existed, that something as wonderful as Narnia was real. Because in England, things weren't the same as they were in Narnia, and being the eldest meant something rather different than it had here.

In England it meant that he had to fill their absent father's stead. It meant he could not be a boy, but had to be a man. It meant he had to "act his age" and be an upright, patriotic citizen.

It meant that one day, he might have to fight in England's war. Fight, serve, protect, _die_…

No one in London knew that England wasn't his country, or that the British weren't his people. England _wasn't_ home. It was a place he had once lived. It was not the place he wanted to die in, nor the place he wanted to die _for_.

He had no ties to England, nothing there that he cherished, save his family. He had no allegiance to England, no one he had pledged fealty to, save his father, who was off fighting its war.

In England he was expected to be an adult, a _soldier_…

They did not know he was one already. They did not know he had already _been_ one for over fifteen years.

"_Act your age!"_

He was once twenty-eight. He still _felt_ like he was twenty-nine.

"_Honestly, Peter, would it be too much to ask you to just walk away?"_

"_I shouldn't have to! I mean, don't you ever get tired of being treated like a kid?"_

"_Um…we __**are**__ kids…"_

"_Well, I wasn't always!"_

In Narnia being the eldest meant that he was the High King. It meant that before he grew to be a man, he had become a warrior. It meant that he had led a country and saved a people.

It meant he had learned to _love_ an entire nation, enough that he would die for it without hesitation—and almost had, many times.

He had given himself heart, soul, mind, and body to Narnia. How could England ask of him the same?

It was a very old concept, remembered from the depths of dusty tomes and cobwebbed scrolls: a country and its people were only as healthy, only as prosperous, as their king.

What Peter sometimes still forgot, however, was that Narnia had _four_ monarchs instead of one, and although he may be the _High_ King, Edmund, Lucy, and Susan were King and Queens in their own right, and all four of them were essential to the life and vitality of Narnia.

It had taken Edmund and the girls more than once landing themselves within inches of death to remind Peter of that fact. Edmund in particular had developed the alarming habit of taking off more than his allotted share of years from his older brother's life.

When he _did_ remember, because he was the oldest, Peter saw the guilt as four times his to carry for abandoning Narnia to her fall.

And oh, how very far she had fallen, without her beloved monarchs there.

Logically, Peter knew Narnia would have lost them—lost _him_—sooner or later, if not to magic then to death. Logically, Peter could no more be held accountable for the whims of time and change than a pebble could for the ripples it caused when falling into a pond. But Peter had never been terribly logical when it came to his emotions.

So he reacted in the only way he knew how: by lashing out.

That he fought with his fists, instead of his sword, only added insult to injury.

"_They are cowards and children, Peter! Not warriors and kings!"_

Edmund's words, exclaimed in a rare moment of temper two fights before this most recent one, had done little to appease him, and chafed something awful whenever he remembered them.

Especially because Edmund (who had always been his most trusted confidant)…was right.

And _because_ Edmund was right, those words edged their way into Peter's conscious at the most inopportune moments. Usually when he was about to punch an opponent squarely in the face.

The bullies he challenged, the boys he fought…they were nothing like the seasoned warriors he had known here in Narnia: they were not a pompous lord, who had impugned the High King's honor by suggesting that he was too inexperienced and young to lead a country; they were not Oreius, who was the general of an army; they were not Edmund, who was a skilled warrior in his own right.

They were teenagers who had never seen a woman after she had been raped, or a comrade gutted on the field of war.

They had never had a subject die for them, nor vomited from the scent of carrion.

They had never been forced to watch as their younger brother bled out, nor had they ever felt their own lifeblood coat their fingers.

They did not know what it meant to be on the edge of death, and then thrust back into life.

They knew none of this. Peter did.

He knew what made a man moan with pleasure and a woman gasp with delight.

He knew what it meant to carry the weight of an entire kingdom, and how very heavy a crown could feel.

He knew the bite of steel and the pain of tearing flesh.

But he had forgotten what it meant to temper justice with mercy, and honor with humility.

He had forgotten what it meant to be a brother, and what it meant to be a king.

He had forgotten _everything_…except the fact that he was the oldest and therefore had to be right.

Only now did it occur to him that perhaps he was just as fallen as his beloved country.

* * *

_Yet a little while is the light with you. Walk while ye have the light, lest darkness come upon you; for the one who walks in the dark does not know where he is going.—John 12:35-36_

* * *

_Tbc._


	2. The Waking of Sense

**WARNING:** Please make sure to have tissues handy if you're easily reduced to tears!

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C.S. Lewis and Walden Media.

_**Author's Note:**_ Susan's chapter to follow. I figured I'd go ahead and post both these chapters, and then update with new content later. I hope you enjoy every bit of this!

_**Rating:**_ T/M (for intense moments and sensitive issues)

_**Summary:**_ While their younger siblings cross the gorge, Peter and Susan have their own journey to make, and their own lessons to learn…(AU, Book and Moviebased, Companion Piece to _Keeping the Faith_)

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Personal Thoughts/**_

_**Memories/Excerpts/Quotes (Italics)**_

**(2)** _Prince Caspian_ pg. 263 in _The Complete Chronicles of Narnia_ (Hardcover; Illustrated)

_Learning to Walk Blindfolded_

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter Two: The Waking of Sense_

* * *

"_Lucy?" said Susan in a very small voice._

"_Yes?" said Lucy._

"_I see him now. I'm sorry."_

"_That's all right."_

"_But I've been far worse than you know. I really believed it was him—he, I mean—yesterday. When he warned us not to go down to the fir wood. And I really believed it was him tonight, when you woke us up. I mean, deep down inside. Or I could have, if I'd let myself. But I just wanted to get out of the woods and—and—oh, I don't know. And what ever am I to say to him?"_ (2)

* * *

Susan had always prided herself on being the practical one of the family. It prevented her from being hurt. As a result, when they stumbled out of the wardrobe that awful day, she had not seen the point of longing for something they could no longer have (or so she had thought then). From there, she had made the decision to embrace whatever England held for her, and often encouraged her siblings to do the same.

Therefore, it was no great surprise when she was the first of her siblings to adjust to life back in England. Edmund and Lucy followed soon enough, but Peter…Peter couldn't.

Granted, the two youngest still clung tenaciously to the hope that they would one day return, and in so doing, retained the best aspects of their adult selves. But Peter hadn't been able to do anything of the sort.

Torn, confused, still fiercely in love with Narnia, he had seen their return as more exile than existence. And exiled kings never coped well.

Susan knew that he had to deal with far more than probably even Edmund knew. The War still raged in England. Their father still wasn't home. Rationing continued. And Peter, who would turn eighteen (again) in four years, would soon be forced into military service.

The drills at the boys' school were bad enough. To make matters worse, Edmund would be participating in those drills this year, too…and Peter would only be able to stand helplessly by and watch.

More than anything else, Susan suspected that was what had spurred Peter's attitude change: he hated being helpless, especially when it concerned his siblings or his kingdom.

She knew that if this war went on much longer not only would Edmund be conscripted as a British soldier, but she, their mother, and even Lucy would be put to work in the factories.

And Peter would be powerless to stop it.

Small wonder, then, that he preferred this world to the one they had left behind. Here, he was anything _but_ powerless. Or, at least, he had been when they ruled Narnia.

At that time, the absolute love Peter held for his siblings, their subjects, their kingdom, and their country had allowed him to achieve feats that were nothing short of spectacular.

Of course, he'd born an equal amount of love towards Aslan then, too.

In England, his only comfort—chill and miniscule though it was—came from the knowledge that he would be the first to go overseas to join their father. What strength he had came from his own soul and, as he had once confided to Susan, Edmund's eyes and Lucy's smiles.

She hadn't asked what of hers lent him strength and he'd not told her, but she suspected it was her ready ear. He spoke to her of things that he wouldn't with Lucy and couldn't with Edmund.

One emotion he would never speak of with her or with anyone else, however, was his guilt.

For all his love was his greatest strength, it was also his greatest weakness. Because he loved, he took on burdens that were not his to carry, and tried to make the littlest wrong—right. When he did not succeed, he blamed himself and no one else for the failure. Even if there was more than enough blame to go around.

Understandable, then, that tonight, Peter had finally broken.

It had been building up for a while, actually, now that she thought about it. Since they had first discovered the ruins of Cair Paravel, and probably even before that, when they were still in England.

Already feeling guilty about not listening to Lucy and Edmund, when he discovered the two youngest gone—and that, only an hour and a half after their initial clash, too—his big brotherly and parental instincts had kicked in full force. And along with them, his self-blame.

Now, faced with her crying older brother, practical Susan Pevensie of Finchley slipped away, and Queen Susan the Gentle finally reclaimed her place.

"You are not all-powerful, Peter," she advised him softly, reaching out to touch his damp right cheek and wipe the moisture away. "No matter how much you might wish it."

"I should be," he wept furiously, curling over as his entire frame was wracked with sobs. "I _should_ be!"

"And would you be happy? Would you _truly_ be happy, Peter?" she countered softly, moving to gently rub his shoulder. "To have all that…What would you do with such power?"

"Protect you," Peter retorted raggedly, speaking of her, "protect _them_," speaking of Edmund and Lucy. "Fix this," speaking of Narnia, "fix _everything_," speaking of life, both in this world and in England.

Susan shook her head back and forth, rapidly blinking back tears. "Peter, you _can't_. No one can. I doubt even Aslan could. He told you once, didn't he, '_There is a Deep Magic more powerful than any of us that rules over Narnia. It defines right from wrong and governs over all our destinies. Yours…and mine._' He _told_ you that, Peter, remember?"

She knew he remembered. They _all_ remembered. That Deep Magic had led to Aslan sacrificing himself on the Stone Table, and from there, had evoked an even _Deeper_ Magic from Before the Dawn of Time—it had given back life to the Lion and, in the process, had saved Narnia.

But Peter looked away, squeezing his eyes shut as more tears streamed down his cheeks.

And that frightened Susan. "You'll run yourself into the _ground_, Peter, if you attempt something like that!" she exclaimed tightly.

He'd try it. She knew that with absolute certainty. He'd try it, and kill himself by doing so. He already had.

Back in the fir wood…he'd tried to take on those Telmarine soldiers, regardless of whether there were too many for him to handle on his own, because he wanted to keep her _safe_. And he _had_ nearly died—one misstep, one opening, no matter how small, and he would have.

"Edmund would have knocked you flat if you'd tried that with him," she ground out harshly.

Perhaps a little too harshly. Peter flinched, as if struck: he knew what she spoke of.

"Lucky for me, then, that he isn't here," he observed dully.

Susan lost her temper. Gentle she may be, but even a Queen's patience had its limits.

As a resounding _smack_ echoed in the clearing, Peter bit back a startled cry and his hand flew up to his offended cheek.

Whirling, he yanked his eyes open and stared at Susan, more than a little stunned.

His younger sister's shoulders were quivering and her blazing blue eyes were over bright in the half-light of the fire. She was biting her bottom lip viciously, fighting, from the looks of it, to not all out scream at him.

And somewhere in the very depths of his being, something cracked.

"Su?" he asked, voice trembling. As his hand slipped off his cheek, Peter reached out and gently took her by the shoulders, ducking his head to look into her eyes and not at all sure what to say.

She gave a choked cry and flew at him with all the force of a small torpedo.

He grunted at the impact and pulled her tightly into his arms as she started weakly pounding her fists against his chest.

"I'm sorry," he murmured helplessly when she began sobbing freely into his shoulder, rubbing halfheartedly at her back. "I'm sorry."

IOIOIOIOIOI

It took Susan a while to calm down. By the time Trumpkin returned, carrying with him more wood for the fire, she had cried herself out and Peter had retreated into a stupor, eyes dark and tormented as he battled with demons only he could see.

The Dwarf wisely said nothing about the state of both High King and Queen, choosing instead to throw a few more logs onto the fire, before settling down on the ground and bidding them both a gruff good night.

Peter said nothing, but Susan, blessing the good Dwarf a thousand times over in her heart, quietly returned the sentiment.

She waited for the small man's breathing to even out, before silently crawling back over to Peter.

Her brother had roused himself enough to lay down when Trumpkin reentered their camp. Now he shut his eyes tightly and turned his face away--ashamed of his inability to comfort her--as she joined him on the opposite side of the fire.

Fearing she might cry again, Susan merely sat down by his head and smoothed his blond hair away from his forehead, trying desperately not to give voice to the scream that wanted break free from her chest.

_This wasn't fair_! Why, oh, why did Peter have to possess such a loving heart and sensitive soul? Why did he have to blame himself for everything, when most of it was beyond his control?

But she knew—she could hear Edmund's voice as clearly as the day he had spoken the words:

"_Because he's Peter. That's just how he is."_

Oh, how she wished Edmund were here now. Lucy, too. Their younger siblings had always managed to draw Peter out of these moods when she could not, and Susan prayed that somehow, by some miracle or the grace of Aslan, they would show up and set things aright.

But the minutes passed and no one came.

"Peter?" she finally asked hesitantly a few seconds later, tenderly brushing his hair out of his eyes.

"I miss him," her brother mumbled, picking listlessly at the grass in the empty spot beside him.

There was little question of whom he was speaking. "Edmund?"

Peter nodded miserably, curling in on himself.

Susan sighed sadly, scooting closer and gently lifting his head into her lap, before continuing to lightly stroke his hair.

Whenever they traveled during their reign, be it in Narnia or any one of her neighboring countries or provinces, the four siblings had developed the habit of sharing the same sleeping space.

Usually, the girls bivouacked together (as they had last night in the ruins of Cair Paravel) and so did the boys. On the rare occasion that one of the sibling sets fought, they would switch it up for a night.

But Peter...Peter had always derived more than simple comfort from Edmund's presence. The two boys traveled more than either of their sisters, and often straight into danger. Neither would hear of separate tents and Oreius was lucky if he could even get them to have two beds. More times than anyone could count, Peter ended up in Edmund's bed, or Edmund ended up in Peter's.

Her oldest brother had told her that he could better hear Edmund's heartbeat that way.

When she thought about it, Susan felt exactly the same.

"I know, Peter," she murmured. "I miss Lucy, too."

IOIOIOIOIOI

As the moon waxed, Peter gradually drifted off into a fitful slumber, still resting his head in her lap.

Susan did not sleep. Not any amount worth mentioning, anyway. However uncomfortable her position may have been, she refused to abandon Peter now—not when he was so vulnerable.

So she sat up through the long, cold hours of mid-night, keeping watch over her restless brother.

Peter's dreams were not pleasant. She knew that even in the dim light of the dying campfire: he tossed his head, face etched in a grimace, crying in his sleep. When his dreams grew especially horrific, he started keening, a low, desperate, agitated sound that drove a knife into her heart. Then, all she could do was place her cool hand on his forehead and pray for the nightmares to end.

Susan hated it.

But she never woke him. She couldn't. Peter was too deeply ensnared by the images his subconscious dredged up.

When the moon passed her apex, Susan suddenly found herself blinking fiercely to stay awake. She did not know where this sudden lethargy came from, although she half-suspected. She did not understand why their little hollow seemed suddenly to be lit almost as bright as day, or why the trees behind and around her were rustling as if in a high wind—even though there was no wind tonight—but she half-heard a lilting melody whispering through their branches.

And soon, she forgot to half-remember _anything_ because—oh, glory! Huge, terrible, and wonderful, glowing silver in the moonlight, Aslan bounded swiftly into their campsite on silent paws.

Susan said nothing, unable to speak and trembling with both fear and joy, as she watched the Great Lion pad up to them and breathe softly on Peter. "Be at peace, my Son," he murmured.

She almost wept in relief when her older brother's agitated thrashing slowed and his dreams eased. As his face softened and stilled, relaxing for what was surely the first time in many months, and as his breathing deepened, Susan's own voice unlocked and tears slid silently down her jaw, "Aslan. Oh, Aslan, I'm so--"

Aslan nuzzled her cheek, his big golden eyes sad and warm. "It is done, Child. Do not apologize for what has already passed."

She threw one of her arms around his neck, burying her tear-streaked face in his mane. "Lucy…and Edmund…are they all right? Are they safe? Oh, please, Aslan, say they are!"

"I cannot say what they are or will be. I can only say that they _were_," he returned softly.

That sounded decidedly ominous.

"Please, Aslan, what is 'were'?" she managed, swallowing uncomfortably at the sudden lump in her throat and trying to ignore the tightening of her chest.

"That is not for me to tell, Child. It is for you to find out," was the gentle response she received.

After a few minutes, he pulled away and Susan asked thickly, touching his nose, "And will I see you again, Aslan? This won't be our only meeting, will it?"

"You will find me if you know where to look," the Lion advised her tenderly. "Until then," he breathed warmly on her face, "know that I love you and will guard your dreams tonight."

As her eyes fell shut and she curled around Peter, Susan thought she heard Aslan's voice whispering, "You will do well, Daughter of Eve. You will do _quite_ well."

She slept undisturbed for the rest of the night.

* * *

_Hope deferred maketh the heart sick: but when the desire cometh, it is a tree of life—Proverbs 13:12_

* * *

_Tbc._


	3. The Sorting of Memory

**WARNING:** Rather intense chapter. You might also want to have a handkerchief at hand.

_**Disclaimer:**_ I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to C. S. Lewis and Walden Media.

_**Reviewers:**_ Thank you so much for your patience. I know I said I probably wouldn't be updating this until I'm done with _Keeping the Faith_, but I've since come to realize that, no matter how hard I try, I will always be itching to get out one more chapter to my stories—particularly ones that I'm fond of, such as this. I'm going to try posting one chapter's story, and then posting the next story's chapter after it, for all of my major stories—and that includes _Keeping the Faith_, _Nighttime Demons_, _All Things Have Their Time_, and this one. Please enjoy and I hope this is well worth the wait!

_**Rating:**_ T/M (for intensity)

_**Summary:**_ While their younger siblings cross the gorge, Peter and Susan have their own journey to make, and their own lessons to learn…(AU, Book and Moviebased, Companion Piece to _Keeping the Faith_)

"_**Speech"**_

_**/Personal Thoughts/**_

_**Memories/Excerpts/Quotes (Italics)**_

**(3)** _Prince Caspian_ pg. 262 in _The Complete Chronicles of Narnia_ (Hardcover; Illustrated)

_Learning to Walk Blindfolded_

_By Sentimental Star_

_Chapter Three: The Sorting of Memory_

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* * *

_

_Treading delicately, like a cat, Aslan stepped from stone to stone across the stream. In the middle he stopped, bent down to drink, and as he raised his shaggy head, dripping from the water, he turned to face them again. This time Edmund saw him. "Oh, Aslan!" he cried, darting forward. But the Lion whisked round and began padding up the slope on the far side of the Rush._

"_Peter, Peter," cried Edmund. "Did you see?"_

"_I saw something," said Peter. "But it's so tricky in this moonlight. On we go, though, and three cheers for Lucy. I don't feel half so tired now, either." _(3)

* * *

"I saw Aslan last night."

Peter jerked his head up from where he had been splashing his face in the cold water of the brook to stare at Susan where she sat on a nearby boulder, combing her fingers through her hair and then braiding it into what both the girls liked to call a "warrior crown." It kept their abundant long hair (and it had been _quite_ abundant when they were older) out of their eyes and away from their faces, allowing for a clear line of vision during battle.

"You heard me, Peter," she replied, just the faintest hint of steel in her soft voice, as she answered the unspoken question. "Aslan came into camp late last night. Surely you must have felt _something_…" She locked her blue eyes inquiringly on his. "Nothing in your dreams? Nothing while you slept?"

Peter stood, looking away from his sister, and gazed out over the gorge, eyes unfocused. He _had_ felt something, of that he was certain. But whether or not it was Aslan…

"_Why wouldn't I have seen him?"_

"_Maybe you just weren't looking for him."_

Swallowing hard, he shook his head and blinked back the tears threatening to spill from his eyes. "I don't know, Su," he responded lowly. "I know I felt _something_, but in the middle of a nightmare, you really don't think about things like that."

"And after a nightmare?" she asked quietly, intently studying his profile as she finished braiding her hair.

Peter glanced at her, eyebrow raised. She merely stared back at him expectantly, crossing her arms over her chest.

He ran his hands through his hair with a sigh, mussing it more than he had already. "What do you want me to say, Susan? Yes, my nightmares stopped—rather suddenly, actually," this last part muttered thoughtfully. "I _think_ it was Aslan. It certainly _felt_ like him, but…" He shrugged helplessly, feeling more than a little frustrated. "I didn't _see_ anything. He _said_ nothing."

Susan frowned at him. "And since when has it mattered if you can see him, Peter? When did you need some sort of _proof_ to know that he was there? You say you felt 'something.' Isn't that enough?"

"Not enough to reassure me that everything's all right," and his voice, when he spoke, glancing down at the ground, cracked the smallest fraction as he remembered all the times that _feeling_ something had not been enough without actually seeing it, too, and that _seeing_ something had never been enough without a physical touch to go with it.

Holding his newly-healed baby brother on a battlefield in the midst of a magical spring came to mind.

"I forgot, you know," he suddenly whispered, gazing down at his hands as if he could still see the blood that had stained them that day: Edmund's blood, their enemies' blood. Aslan's blood. "I forgot how grateful I was that Aslan had died for Edmund, and how much I loved him for dying in Edmund's place, for dying _instead_ of Edmund…it's horrible, I know. But Aslan came back. Ed wouldn't have…and I almost lost _him_, too. I may have already, I don't know." He was no longer speaking of Aslan, and his voice trembled as he continued, "I hurt him so much. I hurt _both_ of them so much." His voice broke, and steadily grew thicker as a few tears squeezed out of the corners of his eyes, "I promised myself—promised _them_—that I would never let anything hurt them again. _Including_ me!" He didn't tell Susan that he had made the same promise to her, as well. "I forgot how much I _needed_ them, Susan! Back in England…I could only remember that _they_ needed _me_. I forgot that it also worked the other way around."

"Oh, Peter…" his oldest sister's voice came from behind and startled him, as did the arms that wrapped around his waist in a tight, trembling hug. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, which swiftly grew damp with the tears that fell from her own eyes. "I think we both forgot that."

IOIOIOIOIOI

"Your Majesties! Your Majesties!" Trumpkin came running up to them several minutes later, Peter's rucksack as well as his own in hand, huffing and puffing the entire way. "Quick! Quick! You must come see!"

Peter and Susan spun to face him, the boy's hand gripping the hilt of his sword and the girl's hand flying to her bow.

"What is it?" Peter asked, very much startled, when he had established there was no immediate danger, accepting the pack the Dwarf thrust at him. The armor inside it gave a muffled jangle.

"No time! Come quick!" and he ran back in the direction he had come from.

Exchanging worried glances, Peter and Susan rushed after him.

With their longer legs they overtook him only seconds later, and together, the three toppled to a stop in the clearing at the lip of the gorge they had left only yesterday.

"Look!" the Red Dwarf practically demanded, pointing down at an area just in front of his feet.

Casting a confused glance at Susan, Peter stepped away from her and knelt on one knee next to the spot Trumpkin had pointed out with his finger, critically examining the ground where it had somehow been cleared of grass and detritus.

His breath caught in his throat.

"What is it, Peter?" Susan crouched next to him, watching curiously over his shoulder.

Peter lightly brushed his fingers over the neatly made arrow of sticks, finding and locating the small indentations on its sides. "Edmund," and his breathing hitched, "it's Edmund. He's left us a marker showing the way down into the gorge."

"And look where it points!" Trumpkin was almost dancing with glee, and as Peter looked up while Susan more closely studied the marker, he noticed what he hadn't before—the Dwarf's eyes were twinkling.

Following the small man's line of sight, his eyes came to rest on a decent sized hole in the edge of the cliff which almost _certainly_ hadn't been there the day before.

His heart leapt into his throat.

Eliciting a small cry from Susan, he jumped to his feet and sprinted for the edge of the gorge.

To the part of him that was running hysterically in circles thinking _what if, what if_, it was a great relief to jerk to a halt at the very edge of the cliff and find nothing below that indicated either of his youngest siblings had fallen and not…survived the fall. In fact, it seemed as though neither had fallen (or had fallen very far) at all.

There was a narrow path not six feet below him.

"Aslan be praised," Susan murmured as she and Trumpkin joined him there. And Peter did not doubt she had been thinking along the very same lines as he.

Carefully lowering himself down onto the path, Peter reached up and helped Susan down, and then both of them helped Trumpkin down who, due to his much shorter stature, had a longer way to fall than either one of them.

Settled safely on the path, Peter nodded to Susan who, after startling a second, suddenly grinned and began leading the way down the path, nimbly dodging obstructions along the way as the Dwarf followed and Peter pulled up the end.

"Kettledrums and kingdoms," Trumpkin muttered to himself some time later as the eldest Queen gracefully crouched by the foot of the path, closely examining the ground, before looking up with a smile and waving them down, "Queen Susan would give some of our best trackers a challenge they haven't enjoyed in _years_."

Peter doubted he had been meant to hear it, but nonetheless gave a fond smile as he gazed at the older of his two sisters and nodded. "That she would, Master Dwarf," he murmured to the small man as they joined her.

At her exclamation of, "Here's another one, Peter!" he smiled again.

"That she would."

IOIOIOIOIOI

Some hours later, when they had crossed the River Rush at its calmest point in the gorge, they quite literally stumbled upon the next marker. Susan's foot collided with it as she lost her footing on the slippery bank and she gave a small cry as she nearly landed on the marker, at the last moment pulled tightly back against Peter's chest as his arms wrapped around her waist.

"Sorry," she whispered, turning shyly to face him. It had been a while since he'd last held her like this and she suddenly understood why Edmund had gone around for weeks at a time, looking like he'd lost something vitally important and was utterly unable to find it.

Peter hadn't been Peter—_their_ Peter, _this_ Peter—since leaving the Professor's home six months ago.

Now, her oldest brother gave her a faint half-smile and shook his head, lightly squeezing her and brushing a small kiss against her forehead, before setting her back on her feet.

There was a sudden, heavy call from the Dwarf who had scrambled up onto the bank ahead of them, desperate to get away from the water and onto relatively stable land, "High King Peter…"

The muscles in Peter's lower back tightened. Gently, his grip firm, he moved his oldest sister to the side in front of him just as she gave a hard shiver, though the day was warm. He attempted a would-be reassuring smile at her, before hesitantly releasing her shoulders and slowly, almost reluctantly, making his way towards the Dwarf.

Trumpkin was near a clutch of sharp, jagged boulders with his back turned to them. Above him, the path continued on its steep, upwards climb, far narrower and far rockier than the one they had left behind.

The small man turned solemnly to face Peter when Narnia's oldest king joined him. In his hands, held almost reverently, was a mahogany bow, shattered into at least three separate pieces.

Peter heard Susan come up behind him, heard her gasp and stifle her cry as she, too, caught sight of the bow, now cradled tenderly in her oldest brother's palms.

But Peter could only see their little brother's dark eyes, bright with excitement and relief, as Edmund held out the whole, mahogany bow for his inspection what now seemed like days ago in Cair Paravel's Treasure Room: _"Pete, look! Can you believe it? I would have thought the string had perished ages ago!"_

From Peter's throat ripped an agonized yell.

Crashing to his knees, he squeezed the fractured bow so tightly in his hands that it splintered into a half-dozen more pieces. He didn't even notice the splintered wood or taut string biting into his palms, skin and flesh grown soft in England breaking and bleeding.

In the background, Susan crashed to the hard, unforgiving ground with a whimper. Behind her, Trumpkin took off his hat and bowed his head.

"Oh, Aslan, no," Narnia's oldest queen whimpered. "Dear Aslan, _please_ no."

Off to side, a thicket of trees suddenly erupted in an ear-splitting clamor.

There was a shriek from Susan. Peter leapt to his feet, his sister not far behind. Soundlessly, Trumpkin strung his bow and set an arrow on the string. Susan slipped into place just behind Peter. Still clutching Edmund's shattered bow in one hand, the older boy slowly slid Rhindon out of his sheath with the other, holding it out to side and in front of Susan.

"Stay back," he murmured lowly to his sister, "wait to see who it is and where they come from."

Unfortunately, the moment the perpetrator emerged, Peter forgot his own advice. Fury, grief, anger of the sort he hadn't felt since the White Witch, blinded him as soon as the older man burst out of the thicket.

With an inarticulate shout of rage and anguish, his grief-stricken mind somehow convincing him that this man, in some way, was to blame for what had befallen his younger brother, Peter leapt at the Telmarine, dropping Rhindon in the process.

As the sword clattered to the pebbled ground, the soldier cried out sharply as he found himself thrown against the sheer rock face of one of the gorge's cliffs.

Snarling, Peter slammed the hapless man into the cold, unforgiving stone. "_Speak_!" he all but thundered out.

What the Telmarine managed to gasp out next probably saved his life, "Hope springs eternal," he wheezed. "Please, my Lord. Hope springs eternal."

_

* * *

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_A word fitly spoken is like apples of gold in pictures of silver.—Proverbs 25:11_

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_

_Tbc._


End file.
